Watch Out for the Bedbugs
by wobbear
Summary: Their first time, but probably not what you think. GSR.


**Title** Watch Out for the Bedbugs  
**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer** I've merely borrowed the characters for a not-for-profit fic.  
**Spoilers** Starts right after _Grave Danger_.  
**Author's note** I thought I had given up trying to write, but apparently not. I've been crazy busy with work until last week, so if this is particularly pathetic, please forgive me. This fic is actually a very long-winded setup for another story I'm working on. It got away on me.

**Summary** Their first time, but probably not what you think. GSR.

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Saturday May 21, 2005

"What day is it today?"

A simple question, you'd think. But from the look on Grissom's face, it's a serious one. Beneath rumpled wet hair, his brow is furrowed and his head's cocked in that adorable way. Yeah, I admit, I find just about any of his expressions cute, endearing, sweet, attractive (insert your choice of appropriately positive adjective here), even when to the rational observer he's being … difficult, inflexible, or infuriating (again, take your pick), which shows how bad I have the Grissom bug. And the fact that I find "Grissom bug" funny … so help me I'm beyond help as far as my enigmatic boss is concerned. I've been a lost cause for … forever. It's not that my life started when I met him, but sometimes I kind of, sort of, think – or is it wish? – that it had. BG (before Grissom) there was a whole lot of grief in my life and even though I can't completely forget it – God knows I've tried, and tried – I'm happiest living in the here and now, not looking back.

_In the here and now._ Wow. I just realized how my mind was wandering. How could I forget? I guess I'm tired. I mean, I'm way beyond tired, but so tightly wired that I won't be sleeping any time soon. Because this is totally a WOW moment. I'm alone with Grissom in his townhouse, we're both fresh from the shower – not the same shower, but given how freaked I was by the thought of him showering, naked (I assume) in his bathroom through the merest barrier of a couple of sheets of drywall, some insulation ... paint ... that hardly matters.

"Uh … Sara? You okay?"

He looks tired, too. Exhausted, in fact. His face is grey and his eye bags are ruched, but there's still a spark of life in his beautiful baby blues. There's something else too. He looks … what is it? … worried?

Ohhh.

He asked me a question, didn't he? Simple question on the face of it; the simple answer though is ... I dunno. I don't remember when I last slept, and too much has happened since I left my apartment in time to be two hours early for shift. Was that Thursday? Yeaahhhh. Pretty sure it was Thursday. So that makes today … um …? I give up.

"Sorry, I have no idea."

I have a sudden thought. I _do_ know what day it isn't.

"Not Thursday!"

Quite why I shouted it and air–pumped with my fist as I yelled, I don't know, but now Grissom is pressing his lips together, trying so hard not to laugh that I crack up myself. For several minutes I'm gasping for air as I laugh hysterically, flailing my hands in the air trying to say I'll get a grip soon, very soon. My obliques are hurting and my lungs are pleading for oxygen. Grissom shuffles over and sits on the arm of the sofa beside me, his hand warm on my back as he rubs in light circles.

I'm so very weary, and confused, as I start to come down from my hysterical fit, that all I can think is that Gil Grissom is so close that I can feel the heat of his body.

I'm gulping in air, and wrapping my arms around my body in an attempt to get a grip, and all the while he's rubbing my back and I find myself leaning into his hand. I start to relax as my oxygen level gets back to normal and I stifle a groan of pleasure. If I were a cat I'd be purring. His hand moves to gently grip my shoulder, and as I wipe away tears with the back of my hand he half rises, fishes in his pocket and pulls out a large blue handkerchief, and gently dabs my cheeks dry.

I must look a sight, but he's looking at me tenderly as he folds his handkerchief away. Again he tilts his head and I'm suddenly on edge. What if he asks another perfectly simple question and I lose it again? He'll think I'm a basket case and will want nothing more to with me. He'll gently shove me out the door, then he'll encourage my job search, give me a great reference and shake my hand as he says goodbye, wishing me well in my career.

My career. That's all I have, and not for the first time I'm wondering if it can ever be enough.

Nick's in the hospital swaddled like a new born and surrounded by his worried family as he recovers from umpty zillion fire ant bites and torture in a Perspex box and all I have is my career. It won't visit me in hospital or want to see me at Thanksgiving or remember my birthday or hold me when I can't sleep …

I need to get my priorities right. He invited me here, to wind down, he said, and I was so overwrought I didn't realize how big of an occasion it was. For him, for me, for – dare I think it – us? In a daze I went with him as we left the hospital, I told him my locker combination so he could retrieve my spare clothes and then I allowed him to drive me home. To _his_ home.

Grissom cheated death twice as we worked to save Nick, and I'm sitting here freaking out about my career. Trying to ground myself, I glance at Grissom, so handsome and patient in his well-worn jeans and faded blue T-shirt. And bare feet. Rather gorgeous bare feet; the turned-in left one I find utterly charming. "Utterly charming" is such a Grissom-ish thing to say. It's like he's inside me – inside my head, I mean.

"Sara?" He looks concerned, running a hand through his damp curls, and suddenly I'm back to the shower thing, yet again.

The more I think about it, the more I realize he must have been naked in the shower. Because, you know, it was a shower. And Grissom, despite many contraindications, is human. I wonder how … hot he likes the water?

Dimly, I hear a throat clearing. It's Grissom, fully clothed. Except for his naked feet.

Incredible as it seems, I almost forgot he was there. That I was here, at his place. I must have zoned out for a while, quite a while, because now Grissom is handing me a large pottery mug with a teabag tag hanging out of it. I read the tag: chamomile. Good idea, Grissom, I need all the help I can get in calming down.

Belatedly, I remember my manners. "Thank you, that looks great. Um … did you figure out what day it is?"

His eyes crinkle as he pulls out his phone, checks the screen. "Saturday. Sorry to have … bothered you." He looks like he's tamping down the giggles himself, and that strikes me as odd. Does Grissom ever giggle? Is Gilbert a giggler?

I am _so_ gone, I give up trying to think and close my eyes, inhaling the peaceful flowery aroma and decide it's probably cool enough to take a sip. Ahhh. Grissom knows his teas, I'll give him that.

"I'd like it if you would stay for dinner, would that be okay?"

My startled eyes flick up to his, and I blurt, "Sure, I've got no plans."

He frowns, just a little, and something deep inside me sees the uncertainty, the vulnerability that he's trying so hard to hide with that oh–so–casual question. It occurs to me I've been less than gracious. I try again, "That sounds great, thank you."

He visibly relaxes, and the warmth in his smiling eyes is my reward. Okay, we're okay, again, still, whatever.

"But before that, would you …" he bites his lip and looks tentative again. "There are some radio things I listen to if I'm free on a Saturday morning. Sometimes they're quite amusing …"

Grissom starts to look doubtful again, and I leap in trying to reassure him. Hey, at this point, I'm happy to listen to paint dry if it means I can hang with him a while longer. He's reaching out, in his awkward, geeky way, and I'm a sucker for any attention.

"Bring it on, I'm all ears." I nod emphatically to show my enthusiasm and get a shy grin in return.

And so somehow we end up lounging on his sofa, four feet up on the coffee table, as the intro to _Car Talk_ starts to roll. Even as I think to myself that all I know about cars is where to put the gas and how to dismantle them, I find myself starting to be drawn in by these two Italian brothers from Boston, and almost start to care about Billy from Biloxi's fanbelt problems.

I become more comfortable, despite – because of? – the nearness of Grissom's warm body. Evidently he becomes more comfortable too, as after leaning forward to put his mug on the table he sits back, ignoring the six inch gap we were maintaining before. He's so close I can hear him breathe, and when he cautiously lifts his arm around my shoulders I think I can feel his pulse – but it's probably my own heart, pounding in my ears at this unexpected turn of events.

After a moment when we both seem to hold our breath, we settle into the new reality and soon we're laughing at the animated dialogue between Ray and Tom and the hilarious Cheryl from Chicago who wants a diagnosis of the mysterious vibrations in her Nissan Altima.

As the puzzler question is being posed Grissom stirs himself and sets about making grilled cheese sandwiches. Good grilled cheese sandwiches, with a touch of Dijon mustard on whole grain bread – who knew, Grissom is into fiber, very tasty fiber too – and slices of tomato with a little strew of herbs. Gourmet grilled cheese? This is Grissom; I'm not sure why I'm surprised.

I'm picking the last of the crumbs off my plate as Click – or it is Clack? – is reading the closing credits at high speed. Was that dinner? And if it was, am I expected to go now? I don't want to spoil the mood but still, I wonder. I decide to find out. "So, thank you for dinner."

Mouth full, he looks up from his plate, startled. He chews and swallows hurriedly before replying, "Oh … uh … sorry. I … sort of … I forgot. I've gotten into the habit of having grilled cheese while I listen to the shows on Saturday morning, and I, uh, defaulted to that."

As Grissom leans forward to deposit his empty plate on the coffee table, the radio volume goes way up and we hear a very loud announcement: "From NPR and Chicago Public Radio, this is _Wait, Wait … Don't Tell Me!_, the NPR news quiz. I'm Carl Kasell and here's your host from the Chase Bank Auditorium in downtown Chicago, Peeeeeeter Sagal …"

I guess Grissom hit the plus arrow on the remote control by mistake. He scrabbles down the side of the sofa and finally retrieves it, zapping the volume to a much lower level.

He's blushing at the mishap as I ask, "There's more?"

"We, uh, don't have to …"

News flash: Grissom's ultra cute when he's bashful. He lets that hesitant phrase drift in the air and it's floating between us. Laughter from the radio fills the silence as I stare at him, waiting to see if he has more to say. I'm also looking at that darling little dent in his chin. It's not totally hidden by his beard.

He's obviously not going to speak, so it falls to me. "This is another one you like to listen to?"

He shrugs and nods at the same time, which I take to be a reticent yes.

"So, let's listen." I tug Grissom back against the sofa, and me, nudging his arm with my shoulder. He takes the unsubtle hint and hugs his arm around me again, and thumbs up the volume so we can hear it properly.

I find I'm hopelessly behind on the news, but that doesn't seem to matter. A lot of the humor comes from far-fetched anecdotes, only some of which are fiction. We listen, we laugh, and after a while I can feel Grissom relaxing again.

The panelists pull jokes out of thin air, the live audience chuckles and guffaws, and I snort like a wild pig a couple of times. That seems to amuse Grissom almost as much as the show. Somewhere during the "Not My Job" segment I decide it's okay to rest my eyes. They're dry and scratchy, and it's radio, after all.

"Sara … Sara, honey, wake up." I think I'm dreaming, but I've never been told to wake up in a dream. And Grissom did once call me "honey", or at least I think he did.

"Wake up, wake up, Sara. It's time for bed."

Huh? That doesn't make sense.

I shake myself and open my eyes. "What, uh … Grissom?"

"Gil."

That … is his name, but what's his point?

"Grissom, sorry I nodded off, but … what do you mean?"

"Gil, call me Gil." A pause. "It's my name. My first name." Another pause. "An abbreviation thereof."

"I'm missing something." I rub my eyes, which just makes them feel more grainy, and there's some sleepy glue added to the mix, which feels kind of gross. I'm glad I can't see what I look like. But Grissom, I mean _Gil_, is smiling at me like I'm the best thing he's seen in years. Of course, there hasn't been a whole lot of competition, but—

"It's late, we're both exhausted, let's go to bed."

"Uh, okay," I start to struggle to my feet. Damn, Grissom – Gil – drove me here. "I just need to call a cab." I pat my pockets, look vaguely around. "Where's my phone?"

"No, Sara, you're staying here. With me." He looks at me warily. "In my bed."

I'm speechless, but I can feel my eyebrows rising.

"My guest room is full of insect habitats," he ventures. "There is no spare bed."

I nod, encouraging him to continue. With him so far.

"Since you're going to share my bed, I'd like it if you'd use my first name."

Ohk-kaay. That makes sense, in a weird way.

"I'm too tired to drive, so …" his voice trails off, and he holds his palm out in a "Look, I've explained it all perfectly" way.

So, I get a cab home. What's the problem? He's staring at me as I try to hide a gargantuan yawn behind my not large enough hand.

He heaves a frustrated sigh, and finally says, "I want you to stay. And sleep. With me."

I start to grin and he leaps in with, "Just sleep. Let's talk about the rest when we wake up."

I frown, wondering when the tables got turned and he became the talkative one. No idea, but words fail me. I'm so tired my verbal ability seems to have deserted me. I briefly think "What about the sofa?" but discard the thought as too much effort. And really, why would I fight this?

Gr––Gil reaches out his hand to help me up, and in the blink of an eye I'm in his bedroom, stripped to underwear and wearing an over-sized gray LVPD T-shirt which smells very slightly of him. As I wiggle my bra off through the sleeve, I see Gil trying hard not to sneak a peak, and failing miserably. Soon we're snuggled under the covers and he leans over and gives me an amazing kiss, his hot searching lips on mine a promise of things to come. Too soon he pulls back. I'm battling a yawn though, so I guess he's right.

Gil cups my cheek with his large warm hand as he leans over me. "I'll be here when you wake up. Sleep tight."

He pecks me on the forehead as I complete his line in my head, "Don't let the bedbugs bite."

E w w w.

FINITO

**A/n 2** If you want to give it a go, you can listen to _Car Talk_ and _Wait, Wait_ … on NPR dot org's website (look under programs/entertainment) or download podcasts. And if you have a moment, please leave a review: I'd love to know what you thought of this.


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